


Consulting Husbands

by sherbetlemons



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, More Fluff, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Present Tense, Romance, Smut, fluctuating john/sherlock pov, more smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-06 18:05:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherbetlemons/pseuds/sherbetlemons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A snippet into the lives of John and Sherlock as lovers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Quiet Afternoon

Sherlock’s profile looks so beautiful in this light; the afternoon sun is streaming through the wide open windows and highlighting his hair, his face, his slender neck. His arms wrap around my torso, pulling my body against his, my head leaning against his rib cage. My fingers trace under his shirt, along the expanse of his chest; his soft, porcelain skin smooth like velvet against my callused, rough hands. He has far too many layers on for my liking (I suppose I do too), but of course he is wearing what I like to call the “Purple Shirt of Sex” (and God is it sexy on him!) so I may as well let him keep that on for just a little while longer. 

 

I run my hands through his hair, sweeping upwards and messing it a little bit, massaging his curls. He closes his eyes and a small smile spreads across his face, and he exhales deeply. He loves it when I play with his hair; (he seems to lose all defences and is completely vulnerable to the force of the love that I, John Watson, bring to him - a hurricane of love) in fact, I could be content doing this for half an hour (or more, easily), and so could he. We have time; today’s just another afternoon together in 221b of doing nothing. We haven’t had a case in a while. Sherlock got pretty wired yesterday about that, and of course I was the one who had to calm him down.

 

But how beautiful this man beside me is is something I’ll never be able to get over, really. My love also happens to be the most handsome man on this planet and a proper genius with one of the biggest brains the world has ever known. I’m lucky - very lucky - to have him.

 

No matter what anyone else says, this man is the most human of all human beings out in the world. He has the capability to love someone and love them deeply. I’d say he loves me more than I love him, but that is impossible, because he is my Sherlock.

 

 

I lift myself up slightly and pull him into a deep kiss, which is pleasant (mmm, this is lovely), but quite uncomfortable on the sofa at the same time. He shifts under me and seems to melt into the kiss. we stay like this for what seems like forever, and it really is beautiful.

Should we move to the bed?

Just as I open my mouth to ask him, Sherlock’s phone rings.

Christ, of all the times in the day to call him, Lestrade just has to pick this (otherwise perfect) moment. Sherlock groans, before striding across the room like a lightning bolt to where the phone sits on my armchair.

“Sherlock Holmes?” A pause. “Yes… Yes, I’ll be right there.”

I don’t have to be told, I’ve already got my coat on. Sherlock pulls his coat on, giving me a look that seems to be of naked affection (mixed with the the obvious sheer anticipation for what lies ahead), before flashing one of those “Let the adventure begin” smiles he knows I love as we stride out the door.

 

***

 

“It was the cleaner.” Sherlock announces, finishing one of his rapid-fire deductions of the scene around him in this basement. He steps around the bodies of the family of four to where Greg and I stand.

“Sadie Bernfield is your killer.”

It figures, and all the little clues left around the area start to click together. Amazing, abso-bloody-lutely amazing. Sherlock’s deductions can sometimes be terribly annoying (when he deduces the people around him and picks out their flaws it drives my head in), but on a crime scene he is brilliant. 

“Fantastic!” I proclaim breathlessly. This earns some sniggering from Anderson and Donovan behind us. Sherlock is already glaring daggers at them. They had made some remark or another before about us shagging. Best to ignore them, really (though of course Sherlock and I do have wonderful sex, it really isn’t up to the Yarders to know about our personal lives).

 

***

 

Greg walks us over to the yellow tape as we leave.

“You’re definite about this, Sherlock?”

“Of course, Lestrade. Arrest her.”

“Right. Thanks a lot.” Lestrade turns to leave.

“See you later, Greg.” I call out behind me. He flashes me a quick smile as Sherlock ducks under and holds the tape up for me.

 

We walk away, and as soon as we’re well away from the crime scene, he takes my hand. Tonight is another blisteringly cold night; the weather typical for the middle of autumn in London. The crime scene was only a short walk from Baker Street; hardly a route long enough to hail a cab.

“Your hands are cold.” he murmured, squeezing my right one, perhaps a little too tight, his thumb circling my palm (mmm, isn’t this lovely).

“Sorry about, well, you know.” He continued, laughing awkwardly.

“No, well, it’s fine. Really - don’t worry about anything. You solved a case instead, and it was bloody amazing, I’ll tell you that much.” 

At this point, we seemed to both be fighting the urge to kiss each other right here in public.

“Well, I hope you realise that I intend to make up for lost time with you tonight. I knew what you wanted” he says cheekily, before smiling and winking. 

God, yes.

“Lestrade can be an idiot - that case would have been no more than a four I think.” 


	2. The Question Left Unsaid

7:23am. Too early. Should go back to sleep — don't want to wake John. Only takes me approximately four minutes to fall asleep again; John’s body by mine, his body heat like a furnace against mine. Trace his spine as I run my hand up and down his back, skin so smooth.  
Memories of last night flash before my eyes; John stripping me, his hands hot against my skin, his cock hard against my own, the way he sucked me off, hungry, passionate kissing, John chanting my name, breathless, erectile tissue, legs... Oh, John.  
And then there was the case — the bloody case that wasn't even a four (maybe a five). Lestrade could have worked it out. Anyone could have solved it — it was a case of all of them seeing, yet not observing. The Yard are a bunch of idiots, really.  
Phone vibrates, reach over aimlessly in the direction of the nightstand, feel around for it. Miss, bang my wrist on corner instead; pain shoots through my hand and up my arm.  
Eyes blur into focus, squint against the brightness of the screen. Two texts, one from Lestrade and the other from Mycroft. Delete the one from Mycoft; he's probably talking some kind of gibberish anyway. Lestrade texting to say that I was right. Obviously.  
John's side of the bed is cold. He's gone (where?). His dressing gown is hanging against the door, trousers no longer strewn on the floor, shoes missing from under the bed. He’s fully dressed then — he must have gone to the surgery.  
  
Today is a special day. If I asked John what was special, he wouldn't remember. "What's so special, love?" he'd probably say, a bemused smile on his face. He wouldn't be able to deduce it either if I asked him to; just like he hasn't deduced yet that I've been keeping an engagement ring hidden for him (for exactly seventy-nine days now. I've been waiting for the right moment) and today seems to be the right occasion to do something as ludicrously sentimental as this.  
Get up, put on John's dressing gown. It's a guilty pleasure of mine, wearing John's clothes when he's out. I can’t help it, it’s just the fact that his scent is addictive. Years ago (once I finally accepted the fact that I loved John), I used to sleep on his bed, basking in unrequited love. His sheets smelled lovely; particles of dead skin cells and golden strands of hair, notes of some sweet, buttery smell and his shampoo also hidden in his glorious scent. Now of course, I have John (no, /my/ John), but for moments when he is away, simple things like wearing his clothes are able to suffice until he comes back home.  
Find something to eat that isn’t contaminated by my previous  experiment (timing the decomposition of skin after death, three variables) (I hope John didn't mind). Toast should be enough, no milk for tea (today’s a special day — maybe I should go and buy some, if I can be bothered).  
Lay on the couch and stare into space.  
Bored.  
  
12:34pm: Dinner? SH  
12:36pm: Sure, where?-J  
12:36pm: Dragon Palace at 7? SH  
12:38pm: Great, can’t wait :-) -J  
  
***  
  
Suited up and ready to make my way down to the restaurant (just across the street from 221b). John will be coming straight from work, I think. He might remember that this was the place where I took him for dinner after we solved our first case together. (I thought it would be appropriate for us to return to one of the places we first visited together.) Ring tucked into my coat pocket, away. Pull it out and fiddle with it for a bit. For lack of better word for a description of what I’m feeling, I feel nervous. Feelings are tricky things; most people assume I am some kind of machine, unable to feel any emotion and am essentially a brain on legs, spitting out answers to crimes straight away, able to turn “invisible” from the outside world when necessary and am a "freak". But after years of torments and insults (back then, I seemed to care too much), I managed to succeed in masking my feelings. I still do sometimes. But a man came and changed that for me, and put the heart back in my body (can you have a metaphorical heart?). I’ve never known how to feel love until John came along. Will he say yes? No? Could I handle it if he says no, or would I turn back to the bottle of 7% solution hidden in my secret space under the floorboards? How am I even going to ask him? Ordinary people must find it so easy to propose - to love - yet here I am, my John being the only meaningful (friend / lover / companion / flatmate) person in my life. I dislike the sentiment involved in such a thing as marriage, but John is mine. John will always be mine, and of course I need a way to prove it to him.  
John always tells me he’d do anything for me (evident on the first night of the first case we ever solved together; in the first twenty seven hours of our friendship, John shot a man to protect me), and I don’t doubt that for a second. John - like me - didn’t have a happy childhood. He hardly ever speaks about it, but I remember one night after we got back from a solving a particularly distressing case, he did. I'd never seen John cry before that night; it made me feel terrible. I was left to stroke his back and play with his hair.  
Obviously he had an absence of love in his family; his mother being the only person he has a good relationship with in the household. Now that we've found each other, I feel it is my duty to give him a lifetime of love in the (x) number of years we have left together, to make up for all those terrible days. Likewise, it is obvious John feels the same way about me.  
  
7:06pm: Where are you? Waiting outside -J  
  
Shit.  
Panic, shove ring back into box, put box in suit pocket. Grab wallet. Run down stairs two at a time, burst through the front door. Mrs Hudson is cleaning, hopefully I didn't scare her (she'd be used to it now anyway). Sprint along Baker Street, cross the road half a block away from the restaurant so I have time to catch my breath.  
Still panting as I reach John, an amused smile plastered across his face.  
"Shut up!"  
He laughs. I lean in to give him a quick hello kiss, and we walk inside.

***

"Why are we doing this?" John asks, after finishing a mouthful of steamed pork dumpling.  
"Sorry...what?" Still nervous.  
"Well, usually you have a reason for taking me out to dinners, otherwise we would have just got takeaway."  
Clever. John definitely has a higher IQ than the general population. Most people wouldn't have thought anything of it. He knows me too well.  
"Well... We're a couple. Isn't this what couples do - go on dates?" I must sound alien.  
John nods, but his smile hints at expecting a second deeper meaning. His chopsticks pinch another dumpling from the plate.  
Not yet. Wait a few more minutes.  
"Are you alright? You seem a bit... you know."   
Fuck.  
Once this is out, everything will be easier.  
"Yeah, I'm uh, fine."  
I just want to wipe that look of disbelief off his face. Sip a bit of jasmine tea to stall the conversation a bit, scalds my tongue. Grab my glass of (cold) water gulp it down.  
John ends up bursting into giggles at this point, apparently the face I just pulled was "hilarious" (I don't see the hilarity in someone burning their tongue but I went along with it). He takes my hands in his and circles his thumbs around my palm.  
"Seriously though, what is it?" He looks me in the eyes for a long while.  
Take my hands back and clear my throat.  
"Do you know why today is a special day?"  
"What's so special about today, love?" Ha. Knew he'd say something along similar lines.  
"Today's the anniversary of the day we first met, four years ago."  
"Oh, I completely forgot about that! So you brought me here - the place we came for dinner after the taxi driver case."  
"Yes, precisely. So I thought it would be an appropriate time to um... uhh..."  
Silence.  
"Out with it, love."  
Pull the ring out of my pocket slowly, unsure. (What the hell am I supposed to do now? Do I say something?)  
"Oh my God! Is that...?"  
He's up in a flash, bowls me over in a hug. Kisses me for a long time, runs hands through my hair (mmm).  
"Yes, of course I will, love." He whispers in my ear before pulling me in again.  
Elated. I feel as though I'm floating, euphoric. I don't even care that people are watching, smiling (ugh, people are idiots).  
Happy.


	3. My Consulting Detective

Well, hasn’t tonight been a night.  
It was unexpected (to say the least), but bloody amazing and exciting at the same time. Marriage - something that I never thought I’d have with a man who loathes sentiment - is now on the horizon for us. Sherlock was so cute before at the restaurant - he has no idea how anxious and jittery he was, like a little nervous puppy (although he'd hate me saying something like that, really).  
Still haven’t called Harry yet, but that can wait. She’s still pissed off at Sherlock for that time when Moriarty very nearly decided to blow us up at the pool three years ago. She needs to get over it; it wasn’t even Sherlock’s fault.  
Haven’t stopped kissing my consulting detective. I fucking love this man. He is all mine now, for the rest of my life.  
(I know, sometimes I can be a selfish bastard, but when it comes to Sherlock, I have a right to be selfish.)  
And I was even more surprised to hear that he bought milk (and subsequently get home to find milk sitting in the fridge). Sherlock really had gone to all that trouble to walk two hundred metres down the street to Tesco, even though I may have asked him a thousand times before. It makes me wonder what other surprises he is saving up for me tonight. More surprises will obviously come later on when we go to bed (I'm very much awaiting the chance to make love to my consulting detective/fiancée tonight, as with any other night).  
We still have a bottle of red left over from my birthday (Sherlock only drinks red wine; he bought me three bottles because then he’d obviously be able to have some too). I’d go and grab it from the kitchen, but at the same time, nothing at all would be able to tear me away from Sherlock’s lips right now.  
Scrap it, we need something to celebrate with.  
“I’ll be back,”  
“What could be so important that you’d decide to hastily abandon making out with your fiancee in pursuit of something else?” Sherlock looks bewildered, annoyed, and goddamn adorable all at the same time.  
“Relax, love.” I call from the kitchen, returning with the bottle of shiraz and two glasses.  
I settle in against Sherlock, draping my legs over his lap as he pours my glass before his (and some people still have the nerve to call this man selfish?). I've never seen Sherlock so happy before. He's probably thinking the same about me too, to be honest.  
  
Both our phones vibrate.  
  
8:47pm: "I see congratulations are in order for you two. I shall be over tomorrow morning to discuss certain details with you. Expect me at 10am, I should not want to disturb you two any earlier. - Mycroft"  
  
"Mycroft's been stalking us again." Sherlock sighs, tossing his phone frustratedly across the room.  
"Good thing he didn't kidnap us, though." I point out. Sherlock chuckles. I've told him about Mycroft's interrogations before.  
"I think he knows what we'll be doing tomorrow morning." he remarks, wiggling his eyebrows jokingly.  
Oh, Oh God yes.  
"Should we go down and tell Mrs. Hudson?" I think she ought to know.  
"Pass me my phone."  
I roll my eyes, and contemplate not giving it to him. Yet at the same time, I'm happy with not moving (I'm allowed to be a selfish bastard sometimes from now on).  
He sends the text, I move to get another glass for her, then sit back on my armchair.  
Mrs Hudson comes in a few minutes later with a look of utter confusion and terror on her face. She relaxes once she realises the text was all just a ploy to get her up to our flat.  
"Hello Mrs. Hudson!!" Sherlock swoops up happily and kisses her on the cheek, before motioning for her to sit down.  
"Glass of red?"  
"What's going on?" She asks tentatively, and Sherlock hands her her glass.  
"We're engaged!" I announce.  
"Oh my goodness, boys!" she exclaims ecstatically, jumping up out of her seat, and hugging us both.  
I've always seen how important Mrs. Hudson is to Sherlock; She’s like a surrogate mother; since his mother was unable to provide him with an acceptable amount of love. I’ll never forget that once Sherlock half killed a man because he had laid a finger on her.  
After nearly an hour of excited chatter later, Mrs Hudson leaves us to ourselves again.  
  
After more snogging on the couch, I end up falling asleep; contentedly laying on Sherlock, hearing his heartbeat, feeling his stomach expand and contract as he breathes in and out. Nature's own lullaby, really.  
  
I awake about half an hour later to find my pants off, and my consulting detective kissing along the insides of my thighs and sucking my cock. /Oh/. A rush of satisfaction runs through my body, escaping in a strangled, choked back moan.  
"Oh, Jesus this is good. Mmm, Sherlock," I sigh.  
He sucks me harder, faster; tongue licking and swirling against the shaft.  
"Christ!" I yelp.  
It's all too much, too many gorgeous sensations are running through my body. Any moment now I won't be able to hold back. He rubs and teases his thumb along the head of my cock, before giving me one last suck, finishing me off.  
"Sherlock..." I gulped. "Sherlock... Sher- please - oh God!"  
I come quickly and violently in his mouth. Should've had more control. That was embarrassing (like being a fucking teenager all over again: “touch-me-and-I’ll-come-in-my-pants” is really not John Hamish Watson’s style). Having said that though, I was asleep for most of it.  
Now it's my turn to attend to Sherlock, my Sherlock.  
Sherlock's trousers are stripped at lightning speed; Purple Shirt of Sex is nowhere to be seen (he was shirtless when I woke up). Sherlock rips my shirt off, discards it on the ground with all the other items of our clothing.  
Christ - Sherlock is a sight when he is naked; very much like a live porcelain statue. My consulting detective is beautiful.  
And he's mine.  
Pull him into a long, hungry, crushing kiss, before pushing him onto the carpet. I follow him there; ready, more eager to make love to Sherlock now than any other time in my life. Flick my tongue along his nipple, revelling in the little sounds he makes, kiss his chest, play with his beautiful hair.  
"I hope you're ready for more, love." I say lustfully, caressing his hard cock in my hand.  
"John -" was all Sherlock was able to get out before I descended on him again.

***

Waking up in the morning with both of us naked on the floor of the living room is very disorientating, memories of last night still running hot in my mind.  
"Good morning, love!" I whisper in Sherlock's ear, his wonderfully lithe and slender body stretched out before me. I wrap him in a warm hug, and we stay like that for what seems like eternity.   
I hope we start every day of our married life like this.


	4. "Partners Against Crime"

Get home from solving a case. Ravenous. Haven’t eaten for the last three and a half days (though John kept shoving pieces of toast in my face, hoping for some kind of miracle). John should know my eating pattern by now, really. Or maybe he does, and it’s the doctor in him that’s secretly praying that I will eat. My John has a good heart; he is selfless. In fact, most of the time he’s chasing after me. I wonder what it’s like for him to have a high-functioning sociopath as his best friend / lover.  
Difficult, I’d imagine.  
Likewise, I have a human friend who will soon be my husband (equally as difficult, but not really when this man is your only true friend).  
Step into the front door of 221B, walk up steps. Smell wafting from the kitchen, John’s cooking dinner. Risotto? Lean over John’s shoulder as he stands by the stove. Wrap my arms  around him (from behind) and plant a quick kiss on his cheek, a) to say hello, and b) to investigate further into what we shall be eating for tea.  
“Oh, hello love!” He smiles, turning around again to give me a proper kiss. Hold John’s jumper-clad arms for a moment. Soft. Very soft. I love my doctor when he wears stripes, almost as much he does when I wear my purple shirt (i say “almost”, because John will never stop commenting on how “damn sexy” I look in it whenever I wear it).  
“Solved the case!” I announce, before flopping onto the sofa. Get up almost immediately afterwards and throw off my coat. Stalk over to the kitchen. I want to talk to my John.  
“Oh, great!” he continues to stir, pausing to flash me a quick smile. “Which suspect was it in the end, the landlady or the gardener?”  
“Both, they were in on it together, surprisingly,” (I don't think I'll go into the details this time. Perhaps if it was a crime scene that was brilliant and beautiful I would. This was boring, but I did it anyway)  
“Partners in crime, then - just like us. Pass the vegetable stock, love?”  
Hand him the carton.  
“True - though I think we’re more classified as partners against crime.”  
“My thoughts exactly.”  
“Actually, ‘Husbands against crime’ is more like it, I think.” I suggest with a smirk.  
“Husbands-to-be against crime.”  
“Too long. No - “Consulting Husbands” is the best option. We’re the only two in the world.”  
“I like that!”  
(He's still stirring the risotto  - I think he should use his hands for a better purpose right now, like running them through my hair. Please, John.)  
“Me too.”

***

"Anything interesting happen to you today?" I question John, taking another mouthful of risotto.  
"Not really, love, no. Just another day at the surgery. No interesting patients today, sadly."  
He massages my foot, my legs across his lap. Lovely. Usually John and I sit at the table for dinner, but I think this is nicer (much more relaxing). (socks are very restrictive though)  
"I have tomorrow off, too." he adds.  
Fantastic, a day at home with my John.  
Stab at a piece of chicken with my fork, chew, then swallow.  
"Any plans, then?"  
"Hmm... Solve a crime? Chase a serial killer through the streets of London? Stay at home, whatever. I just want to be with my fellow consulting husband."  
Oh, my John. I could kiss him right now.  
(And I did.)

***

Wedding plans.  
It doesn't take us long to decide what we want; a small gathering. People I like / can tolerate will be present. Mrs Hudson, Molly and Lestrade are definite. John insists I invite my family - Mycroft will probably turn up anyway (invitation or no invitation), but asking Mummy and my father could be something different.  
John's inviting Harry, his mother and his grandfather. He doesn't have many close friends either, he told me once a while ago that he had to refrain from getting too close to people in Afghanistan because death was always a possibility and it was best to limit the chances of heartbreak.  
(I think he said something about Stamford coming. Don't know him too well, but I can tolerate him if it's important to John for him to be there. After all, he was the one to bring us together in the first place.)  
To save money, we'll just have the gathering here at 221B. It should be big  enough, and we can have afternoon tea. Note: buy cake with walnuts. Mycroft loves cake and hates walnuts - means the pig won't be able to eat it (John wouldn't approve).  
Wedding all organised now, for exactly three months away (February 14th). Keeping it simple - neither of us want anything materialistic, and to save the pain of professional photographers (they are incredibly annoying) (John is very photogenic, I'm not) we're just putting cameras around the place for people to take their own photos for us. All that's left is to choose the design for the invitations.  
We both find all of them terrible and naff, except for one classy design that we both love.  
Easy.  
"This was the best day off ever, love." John sighs contentedly later on, as we fall asleep.  
Weddings are really not my area, but our wedding will be good, I hope.


	5. Christmas

No matter what anyone else ever says, sleeping in is one of the best things in life (after sex, food and my brilliant consulting detective, of course), and today is no exception. Christmas in only a few days away, and my last few shifts for the year are now over. Sherlock’s side of the bed is cold, so I’m assuming he’s up or out working on a case or something. A thirteen-hour sleep after some glorious sex is paradise - just what I needed to recharge.  
I pull back the covers and slip on one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns (I love his red one; it smells faintly of the cologne I bought him for his birthday). I fix myself some breakfast - toast and jam and a cup of Earl Grey tea. Lovely.  
Sherlock and I put up the Christmas lights yesterday; they look quite nice. I wish we had enough space for a tree, but we don’t. My favourite part about decorating the Christmas tree as a child was the sense of fulfilment once the tree is decorated, and the star goes on top (though I was never tall enough to reach it).  
I managed to convince Sherlock last year that Christmas really isn’t as bad as he thinks it is, but still, I don’t think he’s totally convinced. Yet. But of course, this year he has more of a reason to love it; because of our relationship. We’ve only been properly together for ten months now.

12:02pm: What do you want for Christmas? -J  
12:03pm: You inside me. SH  
12:04pm: … I was think in the way of Christmas presents… - J  
12:05pm: Did you not hear me? I want you. All of you. “I want you to fuck me so hard that I won’t be able to walk for a week,” as you’d put it. SH  
12:05pm: Is this some sort of fucking joke? -J  
12:06pm: Perhaps. SH  
12:07pm: I want to murder you with my lips. SH  
12:08pm: I want to suck your nipples. SH  
12:08pm: Stop it now, or I’ll come after you. -J  
12:09pm: That’s exactly what I want, and you know it. SH  
12:10pm: I want to feel you come in my mouth. SH  
12:10pm: IS THIS SOME SORT OF FUCKING JOKE?! -J  
12:11pm: Oh, my John. SH  
12:11pm: I’m going to track you down and find the nearest place to fuck you senseless if you don’t stop arousing me. Where the fuck are you? -J

“There’s no need for that.” A familiar voice says smugly from the doorway.  
“You bastard!” I laugh. “Were you here the whole time?”  
“Well, I take it you never bothered to check the spare room. Is that my dressing gown?”  
Hearing the great man’s beautifully sexy voice was just the thing to get me completely rock hard and utterly uncomfortable (even if he was just asking a question about a dressing gown).  
“Well, yes it is - it smells of you, love. And I take it you’ve made some promises to me that need to be fulfilled. Bed. Now.”   
Sherlock didn’t need telling twice.  
“Yes, Captain.” Sherlock follows me to the bedroom, leaving his coat and scarf abandoned on the kitchen floor.  
Midday sex. God, yes.

***

it’s blisteringly cold outside this afternoon; snow covering the pavement of Baker Street like a light dusting of icing sugar. Sherlock’s out on a case (apparently it’s a six - he’ll solve it quite quickly, then), so I did the Christmas shopping (since I was distracted by Sherlock’s erotic text messages and making love to my consulting detective yesterday afternoon, when I originally intended to go out shopping). i settled on buying Sherlock four bottles of red wine and a book on the 243 different types of tobacco ash (and of course there will be Christmas sex, obviously). Mrs. Hudson gets a lovely set of four mugs, Lestrade and Molly both a bottle of champagne and a box of chocolates. Nothing for Harry (she doesn’t deserve anything), and nothing yet for mum. I won’t be seeing her for a while yet, though.  
My hands are so numb from the cold that I can’t get my bloody key out of my pocket. I should have remembered my fucking gloves. Idiot.  
Sherlock just left the house as I started to walk back; he won’t be home for another couple of hours I guess. What to do in that time? It’s early in the afternoon, and it certainly doesn’t look like I’ll be going out again today; at least not in weather like fucking Antarctica.  
As a kid, I used to make shortbread with mum every Christmas. I haven’t done so in years; perhaps it’s time to get back into baking. I’ll take some biscuits down to Mrs. Hudson afterwards, too.

I’m really quite enjoying this, baking shortbread again; eating the batter as I work, mixing the dough, sifting the flour and cracking the eggs. There’s an art to it, I suppose. Listening to the Rolling Stones and humming along as I bake always helps to improve my mood, too.  
The final batch come out of the oven and I’m reduced to some form of boredom again, with nothing left to do. Baking shortbread made me feel so productive.  
There’s nothing against me baking more food, I suppose; it’s only three o’clock now.

“You’ve been baking,” Sherlock calls from the stairs.  
“That’d be correct, love.” I chuckle. My consulting detective and his deductions are at it again.  
“I’d give you a hello kiss, but I have flour all over me.” I smile somewhat apologetically.  
“I’d kiss you too, but I seem to be contaminated by dead people.” He returns that somewhat-apologetic smile. I bark a laugh; and am immediately wondering afterwards why i found such a morbid joke funny.  
“Just have to take a quick shower, won’t be a moment.” he calls from the bathroom  
Sherlock emerges two minutes later, skin smelling slightly steamy and of triple-milled soap and his shampoo. It’s an instant turn on.  
“Can I have the hello kiss now?” he asks.  
“Of course, love.” I murmur as I pull my Sherlock in and our lips lock. Mmm, lovely.  
“I was just going to finish making the icing for the cake if you wanted to help.”  
“Icing? Sure.” His tone fairly monotonous. Perhaps he isn’t interested, but I thought it was best to ask him anyway.  
I end up doing most of it, but of course Sherlock wants to lick the bowl once we’re done; the little git. Of course, I let him.  
“So did you solve the case?” Something I should have asked him ages ago, but completely forgot.  
“Mm-hmm,” came his reply.  
We decorate the top with bits of dark chocolate and hazelnuts.  
“You know what, love?” I ask.  
“What?” He replies.  
“I was thinking… Your voice sounds like the taste of hot melted chocolate.”  
“Don’t be absurd, John!”  
“Ha - knew you’d say that.”  
“Bite your tongue.”  
“Do you even know how bloody seductive your voice is?”  
“Could say the same thing about yours.”  
“Shut up!”  
In the end, we were too busy flirting with each other to care about cooking dinner (too lazy to even phone for takeaway), but who wouldn’t love a bit of cake and Earl Grey tea for dinner?

***

Christmas Eve drinks with Molly, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson went very well. Lovely and relaxing - a great night with great company. Molly’s staying in London, Lestrade’s off to Dorset, and Mrs Hudson’s going to stay with her sister; so of course it was great to see everyone before they went their separate ways. We were very much the centre of attention, with talk the wedding and everything.  
Now we’re left to ourselves. Hormones running high after Christmas morning sex, we lay in bed together and exchange our presents there; both of us too lazy to move at all (in fact, Sherlock even went to the trouble of preparing a plate of mince pies, cake and shortbread last night - and a thermo-flask of hot water, two mugs and a few tea bags - solely for the fact that then we wouldn’t have to get out of bed for breakfast). Sherlock gave me a pair of beautiful new sheepskin gloves (i’ve been complaining a lot about how bloody cold London is for the last few weeks - and a lot also about not being able to find my own pair of gloves), a mug with my initials engraved on it in big, gold lettering, a box of my favourite kind of tea and a lovely grey scarf.  
“Mmmmm, this is very nice.” I sigh as I plant a kiss on his forehead. Sherlock cups his hands on my cheeks and strokes them, before he pulls me under into a very deep, loving, slow and tender kiss. After a while, we became drowsy and fell asleep again; waking up for more sex and glasses of red wine (by the end of the night, we were very tipsy).  
We didn’t leave the bed all day, which is what made that Christmas the best one yet - for me, anyway. I didn’t ask him, but I could see in his eyes that Sherlock felt the same.


	6. New Year's Eve

The night of the thirty-first of December (more commonly called “New Year’s Eve”) is usually a time where ordinary people go out to parties and get very drunk and intoxicated and wake up in the middle of nowhere the next morning, wondering how the hell they got there. Idiots.

Thank God John and I are above all that.

The Yarders are having a party tonight. John had the decency not to force me to go (I think he realises that most of them are idiots now). Lestrade asked us both as “honorary members”, but parties really aren’t my area. They’re probably more "not my area" than weddings. The last party I went to was just under five years ago. They found me by the Thames the next morning, high as a kite off cocaine. Mycroft had to pay for the rehab, since Mummy wouldn’t. I was completely broke, and the therapy never really helped. The real cure from the addiction came from John on the day we first met, and the case I solved a week prior about the missing book (to which I was paid twenty-thousand quid for finding. That got me out of the slum of Montague Street and back onto my feet.). I’m glad my good Doctor found me; now the 7% solution stays hidden in my secret space under the floorboards, untouched and away.

 

***

 

“Should we get takeaway? I think it’d be too difficult to eat out tonight. everyone will be doing it.” John muses.

“Fish and chips?” I suggest. “I know a fantastic fish shop, the owner always gives me extra portions.”

“What’d you do, get them off a murder charge?”

“Nope, helped him put up some shelves.” 

John chuckles.

 

Fish and chips by the fireplace. Lovely (a very lovely evening indeed with my John (mmm)), but too peaceful.Too quiet. (isn’t it hateful?) 

Hopefully, with it being New Year’s Eve and all, there could be a shining chance of someone committing a murder. I need a case. For now though, I’ll enjoy fish and chips and my John.

“John?”

“Yes, love?”

“I’m bored.”

“Me too.” came his surprising response. “Want to play a game?”

“Game?” Intriguing. (Hopefully not Cluedo again.)

“A drinking game.” He gets up and walks over to the cupboard of alcohol, fetching the new (unopened) bottle of scotch. “Two truths and a lie. Two statements must be true, one false. If you guess the lie correctly, I take a shot. If you are wrong, you take one, and vice versa.” he continues. "We used to play it all the time in Afghanistan."

“Hmmm. You do realise you’re playing against a proper genius here?” I smirk. 

“Look how bloody scared I am!” John laughs.

"Let the deductions begin.”

 

***

 

Wake up late the next morning, John still asleep. Pain throbbing through my head: headache.

I don’t like hangovers.

Last night: John and I played the game. John knew where to stump me (there was one where I got the (obvious) answer wrong, but in my defence that was after I had done six shots). He was better at deducing my answers than I thought he’d be. Reminder: John has a higher IQ than the general population. Note to self: drinking games cure boredom.

Grab phone, turn it on. Four texts; one from Molly, three from Lestrade (and eight missed calls from him too).

 

9:12am Lestrade called me - says your not answering your phone! Everything okay? Molly x

 

(fight back the impulse to send text back to Molly correcting her grammar)

 

6:34am: Come to Scotland Yard - need your help. - Lestrade

7:23am: Sherlock? Answer your phone! - Lestrade

9:01am: SHERLOCK!

 

Panic.

“John? John!!”

“Mmmmm? Oh, good morning love - happy new year!”

“Yes but I have eight missed calls from Lestrade. We’re wanted at Scotland Yard.” I’d like to stop and give him a New Year’s kiss, but there isn’t time to waste.

John grabs his phone, checks his messages.

 

9:18am: Since I can’t seem to get hold of Sherlock, perhaps you can try to talk him into helping. Explosion in Brixton, twelve people dead. Come to Scotland Yard. - Lestrade

 

“Shit,” John breathes, throwing back the covers and getting changed at lightning speed; just as keen as I am to help, despite his blazing headache (obvious in his frown lines). Oh, my John (always putting other people before himself)

Call Lestrade to say that we’re on our way (now he’s saying to meet us at the crime scene).

 

***

 

“Sorry we’re late, Lestrade.” I say, breezing past Anderson and into the room where Lestrade stands.

“Yeah, um, we had a bit of a late one last night.” John adds. Lestrade shuffles a little uncomfortably.

“…So what happened?” I ask, though it’s fairly obvious.

“Explosion, just after midnight last night - twelve people dead. We can’t work out what caused the explosion, or what the explosives were in the first place. And who set them off.”

 

I get to work, examining what’s left of the place. Most of the house has burnt down, and the roof caved in.

Twelve bodies (none of the people related) (all of them were reasonably well dressed) (a bottle of vodka lying on the ground) indicate there was a party.

 

Fragments of Lestrade and John’s conversation reach my ears as I work.

“What did you two get up to last night then?” Lestrade asks.

“Drinking games. I did ten shots, Sherlock did eleven… Pretty hung over, you could say.”

“Things are going pretty well between you two, then?”

“Very well indeed.” Can hear the smile in John’s voice.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that!”

Distracting. Back to work.

 

New Year’s Eve party —-> midnight fireworks (explosion just after midnight).

Call John over to confirm my suspicions of cause of death. (asphyxiation, as well as severe burns)

Fire (from the explosion) —-> lack of oxygen in the air = asphyxiation

Asphyxiation + burns = cause of death

Fireworks = cause of explosion

Fireworks (illegally brought into the country) set off by the neighbour (on the left side of the house) as revenge for noise complaints (evidence in the speakers and the blonde man’s left shoe)

I run through the deductions and very soon afterwards we are on our way back to Baker Street.

 

***

 

“Glass of red?” I ask him as he sets the bowls of pasta (ready-made dinner from Tesco) on the table.

"Desperate for some more alcohol I see, love." 

"Very quick deduction."

“Might as well!"

 

“You realise you solved the case in less than ten minutes?”

“Five minutes and fifty-two seconds.” I correct. “Could have solved it much quicker if it wasn’t for my massive headache, I suppose.”

“Mmm - I know, love. Glad we slept it off this afternoon?”

“Very.”

He buries his face in my neck. Stroke his hair, wrap my left arm around him. Sofa is uncomfortable, but not unbearable.

“Oh - I forgot to tell you something before.” I remember.

“Yes?” Softly spoken; would be barely audible if he wasn’t as close to my ear.

“Happy new year, John.” 

“I love you, my consulting detective.”

“I love you too, my John.” 

We stay like that for what seems to be forever; neither of us wanting to break the contact.

 

I’m lucky to have my John.

 


End file.
